


And after, Rain

by ThisBeautifulDrowning



Series: Weather, Weather [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:05:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisBeautifulDrowning/pseuds/ThisBeautifulDrowning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An argument gone wrong leads to hard truths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And after, Rain

**AND AFTER, RAIN**

 

 

“Safety and peace, Malik.”

 

“Oh. Of course it is _you_. I should have known, what with all the ruckus going on outside.”

 

So it starts: a greeting rebuked by biting sarcasm, and they're at it again, arguing. 

 

By now, it is almost ritual, soothing in its regularity, but aggravating all the same, and so tiring at times. Malik will point out a flaw, an error, Altaїr will try to justify, to explain, and when explanations and justifications fall flat, when half-tamed haughtiness is met by icy criticism and pointed reminders, he will leave, storming out in a huff or in bitter silence, with or without a feather. 

 

Malik enjoys it, more than he probably should. Enjoys driving home how little Altaїr actually heeds the tenets he is, _was_ supposed to be a shining example of: the Eagle of Masyaf, soaring untethered and beholden to none above everyone else. 

 

Now with his wings clipped – but arrogance still taints Altaїr's words even after all that happened, giving Malik opening after opening where he can apply sharp words and barbed comments, tearing wounds he feels are well-deserved. 

 

Of late, though, there has been a stale aftertaste to it. He doesn't like to think about that. How easily it comes to him, the way through Altaїr's hard outer shell, to a core he glimpses more and more of lately, surprisingly soft. _That_ is something he doesn't like to think about, either. Better to focus on the obvious, the known. It is far easier, and more satisfying, to give in to the anger Malik feels boiling inside him, every time they meet.

 

“You're supposed to be better!” Malik snarls. “Not this pet of Al Mualim's, who thinks he is above the lowly rest of us. Listen to this,” he waves at the entrance to the bureau, “alarm bells tolling whenever you appear, and _look_ at you!”

 

Altaїr's glowers. He is streaked with blood and grime, his robes more gray than white, and sweat has left pale tracks in the skin of his face, the lines there tense with exhaustion beneath the habitual beard shadow. Malik takes it in, this sorry sight, and gloats inwardly: Altaїr, larger-than-life, reduced to running Al Mualim's errands; Altaїr, aloof and arrogant, speechless before him. 

 

“I'm supposed to be _me_ ,” Altaїr finally says, brittle-voiced. 

 

Malik snorts at the weak excuse. “What you are is a disgrace.”

 

The white hood lifts fractionally, granting Malik a swift, brief glance of eyes that have gone flat and dull, like unpolished gold coins. “At least I am still alive, and in one piece.”

 

Amusement and satisfaction vanish, replaced by disbelief and a white-hot curl of anger in Malik's chest. That insufferable bastard _dares_ to insult him, when this, all of it, is his fault? Rounding the counter with measured steps, he glares at his unwelcome visitor. 

 

“What,” he asks in a dangerously even tone of voice, “is that supposed to mean?”

 

Altaїr's head lowers. His throat works; he swallows, words probably, something he means to say and then doesn't. Instead, he says, “Hate me all you want, _dai_. Insult me every day, if you wish. But you cannot turn me out of this bureau. I deserve -“

 

“You deserve nothing!” Malik yells, voice hoarse. He crosses the short distance between them in one step, arm shooting forward to shove that _creature_ away: out of his bureau, out of his life. To think that, once upon a time, he had admired, _desired_ this man! “You traitorous, callous son of a whore, you deserve death!”

 

His fist impacts with cloth and, beneath, hard muscle, somewhere center-mass above the belt. A punch like that probably won't even tickle Altaїr-the-Untouchable, but Malik isn't satisfied with purely verbal 'communication' anymore. Not today. 

 

Almost nose to nose with Altaїr, Malik takes a second's sadistic pleasure in the way the other man's lips shape a surprised 'o', the way Altaїr's eyes slowly widen. He burns that image into his mind – Altaїr looks so _young_ in that moment, almost innocent – and snarls with fresh anger, _hate_ ; Kadar was young, was innocent. Kadar was _alive_. 

 

“Kadar _deserved_ , you god-forsaken bastard,” Malik whispers acidly. “He deserved so much, and you took it all _away_. You took it all and you don't even regret -”

 

Altaїr stumbles a step back. 

 

Malik's arm follows. 

 

That causes Malik to look down, brought up short by the strange motion, but he needs a long moment to understand what he's seeing. The red bloom spreading rapidly under the white cloth of Altaїr's robe spills heat against Malik's clenched fingers, and then Altaїr takes another, jerky step back, and that same, red bloom clings to the long, sharp inches of metal gliding soundlessly, _slickly_ out above Altaїr's belt. 

 

Malik stares at the dagger in his hand, having no idea how it ended up there, or whose dagger it is. He forces his fingers to unclench, hearing his knuckles creak with tension; the dagger clatters to the floor, spraying a fine, uneven pattern of scarlet between his and Altaїr's boots. 

 

“What,” Malik says. No more words follow. He doesn't know what to say, mind wiped clean, only a white noise remaining, like a snake's hiss. 

 

Altaїr has no answer for him. He stares at Malik, face curiously blank. Then he turns around and staggers away. He's out of the bureau's shadowed office so quickly Malik doesn't have _time_ to react, standing there numbly with his now-empty hand slowly clenching into a fist, blinking at the droplets of blood Altaїr leaves behind. 

 

At the dagger, _his_ dagger, on the floor. 

 

\- - - 

 

The sun reaches its zenith by the time Malik reaches Jerusalem's north. 

 

The day is hotter than usual, made near unbearable by telltale winds heralding a _hamsim_ , a desert storm. Already, Malik can feel the fine grains of sand in the air, between his teeth. His eyes are stinging with sweat and his black _djellaba_ hangs heavily from his shoulders, slapping against his legs with each hurried step he takes. 

 

Jerusalem's Patriarch's Quarter lies before him in all its decaying, besieged-culture glory. There are fewer merchants here than in the busy centers of the city, but there are plenty guards, enough to make for a small army. Irritated, Malik ignores the pointed stares he receives as he hurries along the streets, the lances that are leveled casually in his direction. He isn't here for these fools. He isn't here for the women behind their rich veils, the knights in their glittering armor, proud on their horses. 

 

The fool he hopes to find, though, isn't here either, and Malik walks until he comes up to the massive wall that surrounds Jerusalem. Frustration is beginning to settle heavily in him, along with unwelcome doubts: has Altaїr gone beyond the wall? Beyond the wall is nothing, open land, a freedom stale and fragile and riddled with marauding bands of crusaders itching to carve out their own little share of the glory. To go there, injured, even if armed, is folly. 

 

No. Malik is fairly certain Altaїr is still within the walls. But where?

 

Reaching a cluster of buildings and trees that promise a bit of shade, Malik leans against a wall. He needs a moment to rest, to think: two hours now – no, almost three – and Altaїr remains gone, as if the very earth has opened up and swallowed him. He isn't in the places Malik thought to look for him, angrily at first and then with increasing worry and a bitter, unwelcome taste of guilt, which did little but made him more angry in return. . .

 

That idiot novice. 

 

Two pairs of boots join Malik's in the shadows cast by a brace of gently swaying date trees. They belong to two men in nondescript clothing, who wear scarves wrapped around the lower halves of their faces like the lepers do, and whose gazes shift constantly, warily, always on the lookout for potential adversaries. 

 

“We have not found him,” the elder of the two announces, a man Malik only knows by the name of Haider. The other man's name is Nadeem. “Where to now, _dai_?”

 

Malik's gaze scans the jagged skyline of Jerusalem, narrowed against the glare of the sun. There is only one more place left in all of the city where Altaїr could have gone, that would have some kind of _meaning –_ and all of Malik's spirit rebels against the very thought of setting foot there. 

 

But he must.

 

“To Mount Moriah,” he says, swallowing against the unease rising in his throat like bile. “To the temple.”

 

\- - - 

 

Solomon's Temple looms larger in Malik's mind than it truly appears, half-forgotten and half-rotten, gnawed on by the teeth of time. The temple isn't even visible from the outside, and first glances at what remains of it do not justify the icy fingers crawling up and down Malik's spine as soon as they draw near. 

 

It is an empty place, scarred with memories and sadness, and only hints of the grandeur it displayed once, in the past, remain. Scavengers have carried away, scavengers have stolen what once made it one of the most-revered places in Jerusalem, and the city's halfhearted attempts at restoring some of its former glory were abandoned long ago. 

 

Entering through the hole in the thick wall surrounding the place, Malik hesitates while his eyes adjust to the sickly-green half-light that greets them. He hasn't set foot here before – or rather, _after_ \- and doesn't know why: the treasure that brought Templars and Asssassins face to face in this place is long gone, stored safely at Masyaf under the watchful eye of Al Mualim. 

 

A golden apple, a trinket. Treasure, indeed! Malik can only hope it is worth the trouble, the blood that was shed. The life that was lost. 

 

He could have gone and retrieved Kadar's body. Before he was appointed to the Jerusalem bureau even, he could have gone; Al Mualim, on the rare occasion that the Master visited Malik's sickbed, suggested it, claiming it would give him closure. 

 

Malik never did. 

 

Standing here now, peering at the cracked floor and its once-beautiful pattern of mosaic tiles, he wonders why. 

 

“ _Dai_?” whispers a soft voice. “What now?”

 

Malik focuses on the present, forcing down memories of Masyaf, his long, painful recovery, the faint tang of bitterness that comes, uninvited, when he thinks of all he was, all that is lost. The two men at his side, quiet shadows and part of the extensive spy network Malik inherited when he took over the post of _rafiq,_ stand uneasily, closely behind him. Who knows what memories the temple holds for _them_? 

 

“If he isn't here,” Malik says, when a minute has passed and he has collected his thoughts, “we won't find him anywhere. We'll stop the search, then.”

 

The men say nothing in response, only nod. Malik hasn't told them who, exactly, they are looking for, or why. He doesn't have to: unerring and loyal, these two men, and other men like them, answer only to the _rafiq_ of Jerusalem. Not even Al Mualim could command their loyalty. They've walked the streets, searched the rooftops, the churches, the mosques, the hospitals; they've been to every place Malik thinks Altaїr could have gone – for help, or to die – and found nothing. 

 

He leads the way into Solomon's Temple, Haider and Nadeem following in his footsteps. 

 

This is the last place. 

 

If Altaїr isn't here, they will never find him. They've run out of other places. 

 

And by Malik's careful estimate and rudimentary medical knowledge, they're running out of time, too.

 

\- - -

 

But find him, they do. 

 

Malik almost misses it, that small flash of off-white garment hanging over the edge high above their heads on top of the impressive archway. Only a second look, eyes sharpened by a tiny spatter of blood found earlier on the ground, reveals that bit of cloth as one of two tails of a very familiar robe. 

 

Malik holds a finger to his lips, signaling for silence, and motions for Haider and Nadeem to stay where they are. He turns and walks backwards, head craned back, while his companions remain beneath the archway. There is no telling what mood Altaїr is in – or if he is even still alive – but Malik doesn't want to chance it: even an animal gone to ground is still an _animal_ , armed with teeth and claws. 

 

He doesn't want to lose his spies to an Assassin's last stand. Especially not one of Altaїr's caliber. The man tends to leave nothing in his wake but ruins and ghosts.

 

Backwards he steps, until he's standing in the middle of the hall where, months ago, Assassins and Templars clashed. Uneasily, Malik catches himself scanning the ground for signs of that clash, remembering. He fought _here_ , and Kadar crouched _there_ , until de Sablé's men surrounded them and. . .

 

The temple appears to hold its breath. He forces his gaze upward, away from memories creeping up from the ground like poison grass, the moment passing. 

 

The archway stands still and silent, lit by whatever cracks in the walls and ceiling allow this place to have any illumination at all. Malik shivers – he is not a religious man, more attuned to the Creed than the teachings of the Prophet, but the stern stone faces of the seraphims guarding the resting place of Ark of the Covenant impressed him the first time he came here, and they do so now. Their ancient stone eyes seem to follow his every move. 

 

Between them, curled in the place where once stood a golden, ornate chest, lies Altaїr . The torches that shone light on the Ark of the Covenant have long since burned out, but Malik can see him clearly enough. 

 

How to reach him?

 

Remnants of scaffolding still lean against the massive pillars, left behind either by construction workers or the Templars, when they attempted to steal the treasure. To the right, a pile of large rocks offers a natural ladder halfway up the otherwise smooth stone structure. 

 

Malik climbs as quickly as he can, ignoring his body's protests against the unaccustomed strain; he hasn't had much opportunity – or desire – to invest time into physical training of this particular kind, lately. 

 

There is no reason to, really. He doesn't have to be able to scale sheer walls any longer. He prefers to hone his knife and sword skills, a much more valuable means of self-defense for a one-armed man often walking the streets of Jerusalem alone. Evidence of just how quick he is with a dagger still clings to the fingers of his remaining hand, crusts red under his fingernails. 

 

Malik reaches the narrow platform that serves as the archway's 'first floor', hesitating. 

 

“Altaїr?” No answer. Tasting something sour, vile at the back of his throat, Malik approaches the curled-up bundle of white robes cautiously, and calls again, louder, “Altaїr. It's Malik. Are you. . .?”

 

 _'Still alive? What an idiotic question'_ , Malik berates himself, and crosses the remaining distance with determination. 

 

Altaїr lies with his back turned to the primary hall of the temple, curled up upon himself. His hood is drawn deeply into his face, and what little bit of skin Malik can see looks ashen. From up close, the scent of copper clinging to the man is overwhelming, making Malik wonder why rats haven't found him yet, or other scavengers; that line of thought makes him think of Kadar and what possibly might have happened to his brother's corpse, and Malik shakes his head, dispelling _that_ gruesome image.

 

He touches two fingers to the curve of Altaїr's jaw, then, feeling clammy skin and beard stubble. Clammy – but not _cold_. He reaches more deeply into the hood, locates a weak, fast pulse beating there. 

 

He hooks his two fingers into the hood and pulls it back.

 

Altaїr's eyes are open and stare right into his. Malik sucks in a quiet breath: the man's eyes. . . _shine_ , lit from within by some unknown power, like golden fire. ' _Eagle Vision',_ Malik thinks. That fabled ability, just one more thing that sets Altaїr apart from everyone else, makes him better, _more_.

 

Altaїr is using it on _him_? Malik wonders why, for all of half a second, before the obvious occurs to him. After all, _he_ is the reason they are both of them here now, one wounded, possibly dying. It is almost amusing, to think that Altaїr might consider Malik an enemy, now. 

 

It lasts for barely a second, that radiant glow, before it fades, and Altaїr sighs, and shudders, and tucks his chin down against his chest. 

 

“Oh, no,” Malik says, brought out of stupefied staring by that simple motion, “you don't.” He leans over the prone body, brings his mouth close to Altaїr's ear, and says quietly, “You're not allowed to die. That's an order. Do you hear me, _novice_?”

 

Altaїr doesn't answer. He doesn't even move, and Malik feels for his pulse again, finding it weaker than before. 

 

\- - - 

 

When Malik was assigned to Jerusalem, he learned three things very quickly:

 

For one, the city is so far away from Masyaf, in terms of visibility to Al Mualim's watchful eye, that the bureau might as well have been located on the moon. 

 

Undoubtedly, the Mentor of the Levantine brotherhood _does_ have people in the city who keep him informed of the political developments and the progress of his Assassins. Still, when he isn't sending pigeons back and forth to request funds or convey a reply to something Al Mualim directly asked him for, when he isn't exchanging information with the _rafiqs_ of Acre or Damascus, Malik finds he is very much left alone – which suits him just fine. 

 

He gets things done faster when no one is breathing down his neck, and trusts in his own belief in the Creed to carry out what is required of him in a way that satisfies the spirit of those ironclad rules. 

 

Second, the spy network: Malik doesn't know who built it up, or when, and whom it all encompasses. The previous _rafiq_ , when asked how Malik was supposed to gather the information people were likely soon going to demand from him, simply smiled and introduced him to Haider.

 

Since then, Haider and his men have proven invaluable, not only just in gathering information and keeping Malik informed of anything and everything that might be of interest: they are the arm Malik no longer has. They are _his_ people, sworn to secrecy like the Assassins, and he relies on them frequently for tasks that would require more arms or more time than Malik has.

 

Lastly: there are guards. _Everywhere_.

 

That proves nearly their undoing, today.

 

Getting Altaїr down from the archway and out of Solomon's Temple is accomplished easily enough with the clever use of rope and the strength of men who know how to build a stretcher with what is at hand. 

 

Getting him back to the bureau isn't a problem, either: the city is rife with lepers and horribly disfigured cripples, sad remnants of war, famine and disease. Stretchers bearing injured soldiers to and from hospitals are a common enough sight, safe from suspicion. 

 

Getting the unresponsive, injured and fully-armed, fully-clothed Assassin back _into_ the bureau, on the other hand, turns into a logistical nightmare, even with Malik's black _djellaba_ covering up the trademark robes and Altaїr's hood pulled down. 

 

They can't very well throw Altaїr up onto the bureau roof. Pulling him up with rope, while too many possible witnesses are still milling about, would be folly, as good as waving a flag at the guards, telling them 'Look here!' 

 

Malik changes his plan. If the prophet does not come to the mountain, then the mountain must come to the prophet. 

 

And this particular mountain is running out of time.

 

Half an hour after leaving Solomon's Temple behind, he sinks onto a sun-warmed stone bench in a tiny courtyard garden and stares tiredly at a palm tree bending under the force of the wind. Dusk rises from the earth to paint the sky in a riot of warm colors, gentling the heat. There is more sand in the air now than before, but Malik ignores it. He is exhausted, mentally and physically, and closes his eyes, just for a moment. 

 

Nasr, the physician, greeted him with raised eyebrows and a comment about unannounced visits, but after taking one look at Altaїr, spoke no more and summoned his wife and servant. _Djellabas_ were discarded, water was fetched and heated, surgical tools were readied; the physician's bulky servant carried Altaїr into a backroom and the door closed in Malik's face. Nasr's wife, a small, round woman, ushered him into the tiny backyard and pressed a cup of water into his hand. 

 

Now, all Malik can do is wait. Wait, and think, and seriously consider at least one architectural change to the bureau, because the current setup strikes him as _idiotic_ , suddenly. What happens if he injures his remaining arm, or a leg? How is _he_ supposed to get in and out of the place if - 

 

“ _Dai_?”

 

He opens his eyes and finds, to his surprise, that the sky is night-black. The air is cool now, a blessing to his empty, aching head. There is no more sand in the wind; perhaps there won't be a desert storm, after all. 

 

He must have fallen asleep. 

 

Haider steps away from the bench and respectfully bows his head once he sees he has Malik's attention. “Nasr is done. He wishes to speak with you.”

 

“Thank you.” Malik rises, feeling as though his very bones ache. He is so very tired. 

 

Stumbling more than walking into the house, he slows down once he enters into the backroom. The smell that greets him is cloying, thick; death hangs in the air and the floor is maroon in places, pale marble in others. Malik has been here before, on his own behalf, seeking advice from the physician. Sometimes that damn left arm of his, _absent_ , still aches. 

 

Nasr is standing at the side of a waist-high table, drying his hands on a cloth. Nasr's servant, ever attentive, stands holding a bowl of reddened water. 

 

Altaїr, on the table, looks worse than before, skin so pale he's almost as pasty as the European crusaders. He looks _dead._ But his chest rises under slow breaths, and there is a thick bandage around his middle. Malik can't quite suppress his sigh of relief. 

 

“Lucky friend you have here,” Nasr says, cleaning under his fingernails with a small knife. “A little more to the left, and his stomach would have been ruptured. For that matter, a little _later_ and I wouldn't have been able to help him at all.”

 

Malik nods, choosing not to comment on Nasr's misconception that the man on the table is his friend. “His injury. . . how severe is it?”

 

“His liver is pierced, but it will heal, provided he rests.” Nasr hands knife and towel to his servant, muttering a few quiet words to the man. With a quick bow, the servant leaves. “I've drained the blood and sutured the wound,” Nasr continues once they are alone, “and I've done all I can for him. If no infection sets in, he should recover with nothing more than a scar to remind him. He is in excellent shape, after all.”

 

A scar. Malik thinks of the dozens of scars Altaїr bears, _he_ bears – reminders and tokens of the life they lead. A scar means there was something to heal. His right hand creeps across his body, toward the empty sleeve at his left: he stops himself. “Thank you. Can he be moved?”

 

“I should think so, if it's done carefully.” 

 

“Thank you, again. If there's anything I can do to repay you. . .”

 

Nasr waves him off, fetching his _djellaba_ from a nearby chair. 

 

“Every crusader less in this city is a blessing unto its people. I'll not turn away those who are thinning their numbers.” At Malik's suddenly wary stance, he smirks and points a finger at a pile of blood-soaked white garment on the floor. “Oh, come now, my friend. Those robes aren't exactly inconspicuous.”

 

Malik doesn't know what to say, so he says nothing at all. 

 

“Now,” Nasr ploughs on, unconcerned, briskly, “I've a few more words of advice for you. . .”

 

\- - -

 

Malik has no idea what time it is, when they step back into Jerusalem's streets. It is quiet, and even the guards seem to relax in the cool breeze that carries the distant promise of rain instead of sand, now. Under the cover of the night, carefully pulling up the stretcher with Altaїr on it proves an easy task. 

 

Haider and Nadeem each receive a small pouch filled with coin, enough to feed a family for a month. Malik can barely walk straight anymore, but he gathers his wits about him and thanks them sincerely – without their help, none of this would have been possible. 

 

“Think nothing of it,” Haider says, voice muffled by the scarf. Nadeem, at his side, nods in agreement. “We serve the _rafiq_ , always.”

 

They leave. Malik shuts and locks the bureau's roof entrance behind them, pocketing the key. He sits cross-legged at the side of the stretcher, staring at Altaїr's pale, slack face. 

 

There are things he should do. A message could have arrived, while he hared all over Jerusalem. Al Mualim might have sent word on Altaїr's next target, or summoned the man back to Masyaf. 

 

Above all, Malik should ponder: _why_? Why save a man he hates? 

 

That question needs answering, but not now, not tonight: Altaїr sleeps the sleep of the heavily sedated, the injured-but-mending, and they are both of them safe within the bureau's familiar walls. Malik decides it is enough, for now, and allows himself to slump sidewards onto a pillow, giving in to the siren's call of sleep. 

 

\- - -

 

He wakes, alerted by the rustle of cloth and the instinctive awareness of movement nearby.

 

It is not yet morning, the sky shading slowly from black to gray, turning the courtyard and its clean symmetry of rectangular walls into a dreamscape of soft corners and indistinct shapes. The air is cold now, chilly, but Malik welcomes it, drawing a breath into his lungs that feels more refreshing than a dip in cool water. 

 

His back aches. He is hungry and thirsty. He feels old; he feels dirty, sweat and grime caking in the folds of his body and matting his hair. 

 

There is enough light for Malik to see Altaїr's eyes are open. They are small with sleep and narrowed with pain. There is no telling if he's even aware of Malik's presence, or still residing in some opium-tainted half-delirium, but one of Altaїr's hands, the wrist absurdly naked and thin without the customary bulk of bracer and hidden blade, pushes down the blanket that covers him. Then, unerringly, Altaїr's fingers crawl toward the bandage covering the wound. 

 

“Don't,” Malik says. He reaches over and wraps his fingers around Altaїr's wrist, feeling the moment when the man resists him pass, and tugs Altaїr's hand down onto the courtyard's carpeted floor. “You are safe. You are at the bureau.”

 

Altaїr's gaze shifts toward him. The corners of his mouth turn downward, and for a moment Malik thinks the man will attempt to turn away. 

 

In anger? Or in Shame? 

 

Altaїr's wrist turns under Malik's hand, with a strength that belies the man's current state, and Malik urges, exasperated and in dire need of more rest himself, “Go back to sleep. You're -”

 

Fingertips slide against his palm, by degrees cooler than his skin. Shocked into silence, Malik feels Altaїr's fingers thread themselves between his, palm to palm. He reflexively tightens his grip, not knowing what else to do. Pull away? He can't bring himself to be that cruel, not even to Altaїr. He doesn't even know what this _is_ – 

 

Altaїr doesn't reach out to anyone. No one touches him, _no one._

 

“'m sorry,” Altaїr whispers, “so sorry. For everything.”

 

Malik can only stare, struck mute. It isn't a pleasant feeling, not when it tears at the impression he's had of Altaїr for months now, for years: uncaring, arrogant, aloof. Not this. Not repentant, reaching out.

 

“Why?” Malik asks, shifting closer. There is a dull, pounding pressure behind his brow, emotions and thoughts tossed about wildly. He has to know. Of all things he could ask, _should_ ask, it is this one thing: “Why the temple? Of all places, why _there_?”

 

Altaїr's voice is thready, weak; when he swallows, his throat clicks. “It seemed. . . fitting,” he says, his fingers turning lax against Malik's, “to end where it all began. To end where he did.”

 

Altaїr's eyes close and his breath evens out as sleep claims him, leaving Malik to sit, to stare at their joined hands, mind curiously blank and wide awake.

 

\- - - 

 

Two days later, Malik can almost successfully convince himself to have dreamed up that night-time conversation, that press of palm against palm. 

 

Almost.

 

Altaїr sleeps most of the time, waking only when Malik changes the bandage or plies him with food and drink, or to relieve himself. Months of constantly being on the move, from Masyaf to Acre, from the plains of Arsuf to Damascus and always, always Jerusalem, finally seem to catch up with him, the injury and the resulting blood loss compounding an exhaustion Malik had previously only speculated on. 

 

Malik is rather glad for the silence, because he doesn't know what he'd do with an _awake_ and coherent Altaїr, who might be eager to provide proof that reaching out, apologizing, had been nothing but effects of the opium, a momentary lapse into weakness, a brief foray into madness brought on by the blood loss. 

 

Malik almost wishes for it. It would be far easier than to deal with the fact that Altaїr might actually, somewhere beneath his haughty exterior, be _human_ and seeking his forgiveness. 

 

\- - - 

 

On the morning of the third day, after a glance into his food store, Malik resigns himself to a shopping trip. 

 

The bureau isn't exactly equipped to harbor _two_ men for an extended period of time, much less when one of them needs a diet prescribed by a physician, to help regain strength. Altaїr's wound also requires a change of bandages once a day, and washing with diluted vinegar, to keep away flies and other insects. While Malik has a supply of bandages not even an army of the greenest of novices could ever hope to deplete, and a well cleverly disguised as a fountain, pure vinegar isn't exactly something that figures into his daily meal plans. What little he has of the stuff, in a small earthenware jug, is quickly being used up. 

 

Altaїr is asleep when Malik leaves for the market, but awake when Malik returns. Head propped up on a pillow, he gives Malik a strange look, eyebrows creased as though he is pondering a particularly vexing problem. 

 

“What are you staring at, novice?” Malik asks, dangling from the edge of the entrance by his one hand, the demeaning nickname slipping past his lips before he can think better of it. “How else do you think I'm getting in and out of this place? Magic?”

 

Altaїr averts his gaze. He says nothing, but his fingers curl into the blanket covering him from the waist down, and a muscle in his jaw jumps under the skin. 

 

Lightly, Malik lands on the fountain's metal grating, sliding the lattice back into its place above his head, and steps onto the carpeted floor. Crouching at the side of the stretcher, he gives Altaїr a thorough once-over. There is exhaustion there, still, evident in the bruised look of Altaїr's eyes, the drawn lines on his face, but there is something else, too. Sullenness, perhaps. Unease. 

 

“Where are my clothes?” Altaїr asks, fidgeting with the blanket. 

 

Unease, then? Malik lifts an eyebrow, setting aside the bag containing his purchases. “The robes were burned. They were too soiled with blood, washing would not have saved them.”

 

“And my weapons?”

 

“Inside,” Malik jerks his chin in the direction of the open doorway leading to his work room, “along with your leathers and boots.” And then, alarmed, he puts his hand on Altaїr's shoulder when the man makes to sit up. “You can't be serious.”

 

Altaїr pushes the blanket down, swings a leg over the edge of the stretcher. “I can't lie here and – I must go to Masyaf, tell Al Mualim -”

 

“You're not going anywhere!” Malik snaps, putting more weight behind the hand on Altaїr's shoulder. He glares at the man, torn between disbelief and exasperation. “I _stabbed_ you, remember? You lost a lot of blood. You almost _died_. You won't even make it out of the bureau in your current state -”

 

“It would be no less than I deserve!” Altaїr shouts, rearing up. 

 

Malik shoves him back down, Altaїr's pained yelp ignored. He's too stunned to do much else, mind whirling chaotically. Solomon's Temple, apologizing, and now this? What is Malik supposed to _do_ with this?

 

Insults are no good here, not when Altaїr looks at him like that, not after that whisper-slurred apology – not after Altaїr crawled into that place to die, in order to. . . what? Appease Malik? _Please_ Malik? 

 

The very thought is unsettling. But then, there is very little about Altaїr that isn't. 

 

Even before Solomon's Temple, the man had the aggravating habit of getting under Malik's skin, often without even being in the same vicinity. Malik literally grew up to witness the rise of Al Mualim's favorite from lowly novice to the youngest Master Assassin ever named, attaining status and robes years before they are usually handed out. 

 

Altaїr didn't have to be there in order to be everywhere: in stories told during mealtimes, in hushed conversations between novices, speaking of bravery and deeds above and beyond the usual requirements. 

 

If it hadn't been for Altaїr's equally as aggravating habit of plainly disregarding the Creed, Malik suspects his own behavior toward Altaїr would have mirrored Kadar's: admiration and the wish to be more _like_ him, lauded and respected. 

 

Not to mention the conscious, vivid desire Malik felt when he laid eyes on the man, something that had begun as an idle fancy some time during their teen years, growing and shifting and changing the older they got, but never quite fading entirely. 

 

Instead, admiration and desire had turned into resentment and later, bitter envy. 

 

And then Solomon's Temple happened. 

 

Malik braces his arm across Altaїr's chest, rising up on his knees to have more leverage. A swift glance at the bandage around Altaїr's midsection shows a slowly spreading, viciously red stain. 

 

 _Damn_. 

 

“Listen to me,” Malik says, leaning as much weight as he dares on his arm and ignoring the hands that immediately attempt to dislodge him, “if I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have come looking for you. If -”

 

“Let go, I -”

 

“No, damn it!” Malik shouts, frustrated. “No!” He takes a deep breath, staring into Altaїr's pain-grimace of a face, _willing_ him to lie still. “No,” He says, softer, and then: “Close your eyes.” He shifts closer, hand sliding up over a sweaty throat, beard stubble, nose, until eyelashes flutter against his palm. “Listen to me: your death will not bring my brother back. Or my arm. It will change _nothing_.”

 

“But it was my fault.” 

 

“And mine, as well.” Into the heavy silence that follows his confession, Malik takes a calming breath. Now _there's_ a truth he could have done without, from his own mouth no less, but it needs to be said. He owes himself, them both, that much. “I could have told Kadar to fall back. I could have helped you when you attacked that Templar, instead of just watching. I was _waiting_ for you to fall. . . and you did.”

 

But: “You were both supposed to follow my orders, and -”

 

Malik groans; they're arguing, arguing while Altaїr's wound has apparently reopened. Why does the man have to make everything so _complicated_?

 

“Must I tie you up?” he asks, half in jest, half in despair. “Altaїr, it is _done_.” Even as he speaks, Malik realizes that this too is something he has needed to hear, for some time now. “There is nothing you can do about it, not now, not tomorrow, not in a hundred years.”

 

Altaїr falls silent, shaking beneath him. Cautiously, Malik shifts his hand away from Altaїr's face, sits back; Altaїr's eyes are open and he's staring straight ahead, unseeing. His hands drop, lax, to his side. 

 

“You don't accept my apology, then.” It is a statement made of whispers, toneless and dire. 

 

Malik feels a century old, the previous, refreshed feeling gone. He knows he should have lied, to make it easier, but he can't: not when he's seeing Altaїr at what he suspects is the man's most vulnerable, most open. He must be as open, as honest in return. 

 

“No.” 

 

He reaches over, slowly beginning the task of removing the stained bandage. 

 

Altaїr's stitches aren't torn, thankfully, the blood that seeped out easily wiped away. After carefully washing the entire area and applying a new bandage, Malik removes himself to the work room under the pretense of fixing a meal. 

 

What he really does is hide Altaїr's weapons, belt, boots and sword harness, as well as the key to the bureau's roof entrance, because he doesn't trust the man not to do something foolish in his aggravated state. Not that Altaїr wouldn't be capable of running off with just the blanket wrapped around his hips, or entirely naked, but Malik hopes it won't come to that. 

 

That done, he fixes a meal. Nasr suggested light foods when they parted, stuff that fills the belly without putting the body under too much strain. 

 

He carries a plate stacked high with fruit, cut up vegetables and soft bread outside. Altaїr appears to have slipped into sleep, or at least pretends to be asleep, so Malik leaves the plate on the floor, within easy reach, and covers it with a cloth to keep the flies away. 

 

Then he stands there and watches Altaїr, far too long, working through the jumble of confusion emotions that simply won't leave him alone. He isn't even entirely sure he got _through_ to Altaїr, thinking about how he had pointedly looked elsewhere while Malik inspected the wound, and that leaden silence afterward. 

 

“Eat something,” Malik murmurs, regardless of whether Altaїr hears him or not.

 

He goes back inside. A strange calm has overcome him; he is doing the right thing, he hopes. For his own sake, at least. For the first time in many months, he can look at Altaїr without hate, without regret. 

 

Inevitably, Malik's attention comes to rest on the dozens of maps, scrolls, and books cluttering up the place. Map-making had been a hobby when he was younger, something to occupy himself with between training sessions and later, missions. Masyaf employs scholars as well as warriors – wisdom has to come from somewhere, after all, has to be preserved and nurtured - but Malik had never seriously considered giving up the hidden blade for the pen. 

 

Not until he'd lain in his sickbed, at any rate, pondering what future there was for him, now. Not until Al Mualim suggested Jerusalem and talked about the retiring _rafiq_ there _._

 

Perhaps he's always been meant to be a scholar. If that's the case, then Malik certainly wishes fate had chosen another path to get him here. One less painful, less harsh. 

 

On a whim, he rolls out his latest map. It is a detailed work, picturing all of Jerusalem's important sites, churches, mosques, guard posts and crusader strongholds. Many hours he spent painstakingly lettering in all the names, of streets and other places. 

 

He picks up his reed pen, dipping it into the inkwell, and hesitates, bent over the map. Then, decisively, Malik draws two straight lines through one name: _Solomon's Temple_. 

 

That map will have to be redone now. Convenient. Wasn't he looking for something do to? He starts on a new one right away. 

 

\- - -

 

Altaїr sleeps the rest of the day, and the next. Malik works on his new map. 

 

The early noon of the fifth day of Altaїr's enforced stay at the bureau brings a pigeon from Masyaf and a pointed inquiry into the whereabouts of a certain demoted Master Assassin. It also brings clouds, dark and heavy on the horizon. A strange air hangs above Jerusalem, crystalline and too bright, charged with that prickly sensation that comes before a thunderstorm. 

 

For the longest time, Malik gazes blankly at Al Mualim's note, the tidy handwriting. What to reply? He can't very well tell the Mentor that Altaїr is out of commission because the _rafiq_ of Jerusalem stabbed him. Not that Malik wouldn't admit it – he stands up for the mistakes he makes. 

 

But he does wonder. At times, Al Mualim's interest in Altaїr appears strange to him, especially in light of certain, recent events that had proven the man's unreliability, his willingness to break the tenets of the Creed. There are other, very skilled Master Assassins, less willful, more obedient, who could have been sent to terminate those Saracen and Crusaders. 

 

It is as if it _has_ to be Altaїr. Why -

 

“It's raining.”

 

Malik twitches in surprise at the interruption, his head jerking up. Pain shoots through his neck, his body protesting the sudden change in position. With a start, he realizes how dark the sky outside has turned – a stormy gray, flecked with silver clouds. Suddenly, he can hear the drops falling on roof and street, heavy and steady. 

 

All of that rendered meaningless by the sight his gaze swiftly settles on. “Altaїr! You -”

 

Meaningless, _again_ : Altaїr stands in the entrance to the work room, wet and shivering, the still-covered plate balanced on one hand, his other clutching the blanket around his hips. 

 

Malik is suddenly, vividly conscious of the fact that Altaїr is naked under that blanket – something that didn't truly register until now, not even when he was holding his hand, when he was holding him down, when Altaїr went to relieve himself, earlier. 

 

But now, it's all Malik can think about, all those long-ago, half-formed desires and _ideas_ rushing to the front of his mind with a vengeance, making him stare, dry-mouthed. 

 

“Malik.”

 

He has to clear his throat to make it work. Casually, he takes the note, folds it and slips it into the ledger open on the counter. “Yes?”

 

“It's raining,” Altaїr repeats, slowly. A strange expression sits on his face, but it fades swiftly and is replaced by fatigue once more. He nods at the work room's interior. “Can I. . . in here. . . ?”

 

Malik stands, cursing his weak, treacherous mind, pins and needles in his thighs from sitting still too long, and makes his way over. Altaїr shuffles in to meet him halfway, leaving wet footprints. A glance outside reveals the entire courtyard is wet, water in puddles between the pillows, rain dancing on the fountain. “Why didn't you come in sooner?”

 

“I was sleeping,” Altaїr replies, testily, but there is little heat behind his words. He looks like a wet cat, affronted that the sky dared open above him. 

 

Malik's lips twitch. An _attractive_ wet cat, and – no. Not thinking about that now. He has enough to think about, already. 

 

Taking the plate and setting it on the counter, Malik notes the pallor of Altaїr's skin, which for once has nothing to do with his injury. Rain water drips off the flattened strands of Altaїr's hair, the end of his nose. Droplets are caught in the sparse hair on his chest. The bandage is soaked, which means it needs to be replaced, but at least it isn't showing any red stains. 

 

“Well,” Malik quips, with a trace of humor, “at least you are clean now. Clean _er_.”

 

Altaїr teeters dangerously, arms trembling from the strain of holding on to the edge of the counter. All right, so maybe that pallor still does have something to do with the injury. Getting to his feet and making his way from the courtyard into Malik's work room seems to have depleted whatever reserves of strength he had. 

 

Malik puts his hand on Altaїr's back to steady him, the skin there cool and wet. “Come,” he says, quieter, “in here.” 

 

He leads the way into the back of the bureau, an area usually off-limits to the casual and not-so-casual visitor. His private room is small but tastefully furnished, comfortable: a bed, a table for candles and incense, a trunk in the corner where he stows his clothes. The walls are lined with bookshelves containing things Malik isn't required to share with his 'customers': works of Arabian and Greek scholars, maps collected on one of his many trips through the city or brought to him by the spies, as gifts. A small, private library to indulge in, whenever he can. 

 

Altaїr, despite his obvious exhaustion, looks around with interest. “I didn't know you like reading so much.”

 

“There's a lot about me you don't know,” Malik says lightly. Then he frowns. With his palm still on Altaїr's back, the flinch of muscle is more than obvious. By now, Altaїr is probably conditioned to expect snide remarks and criticism whenever Malik opens his mouth. “We must stop this. Here, sit.” He guides him to the bed. “And give me that blanket, it's soaking wet.”

 

“Stop what?”

 

“Tearing each other to pieces. No good will come of it, and I'm _tired_ of it. I think we are done.” 

 

Altaїr looks at him, brow creased in what could be consternation, surprise, or anger. Perhaps all of it. Without a word, he surrenders the wet blanket. 

 

Malik returns to the work room to retrieve fresh, dry bandages. When he returns, Altaїr is still sitting on the edge of the bed, slightly hunched over with both hands dangling between his knees. Malik sits next to him, watches the profile of Altaїr's face. 

 

“You've no opinion on the matter?” Tugging open the knot of the wet bandage, Malik begins to unwrap it. “You almost died because of it.”

 

“I didn't _want_ to die.” Altaїr slants a glance at him, one eyebrow curved. “I expected you to punch me, not to stab me. I'm many things, but I'm not suicidal.”

 

Malik gives him a long, silent look, searching. He can't quite keep the sarcasm out of his voice, “That is why you somehow made it to Solomon's Temple, right? Instead of going for help?”

 

Instead of staying _here_. 

 

“I knew I was going to. Die, I mean. If you hadn't. . .” One hand comes up, rubbing at the back of Altaїr's neck, which Malik interprets as a rare show of insecurity. “I know what fatal gut wounds look like. And I can't very well walk into a hospital in my robes. So I went to the temple, to. . . I don't know. Call it penance. It seemed the right thing to do.”

 

Malik drops the soaked bandage on the floor and wraps the dry one around Altaїr's torso. Afterward, he lets his hand rest there, low on Altaїr's back. He wants to touch, but the sudden re-discovery of latent carnal urges isn't the only reason. Flesh, bone and muscle, scars: Altaїr is human, was human all along; it's time to acknowledge it. 

 

Malik cannot accept an apology. Kadar is dead, his arm is gone: no words or deeds will undo that. 

 

But he can move on. An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind. If Altaїr can change – he has, is, and Malik can and must acknowledge that as well – then so can he. 

 

“I don't understand,” Altaїr says, glancing at him again. He speaks haltingly, uneasily. “You say you don't accept my apology, and you don't want me dead. Where, then, does that leave us?”

 

Where, indeed? Cautiously, testing the words even as he says them, Malik offers, “At a fresh start, perhaps.”

 

Altaїr looks away, dips his head. He doesn't say anything, doesn't argue, for which Malik is grateful, because this moment feels raw, vulnerable. Too susceptible to the destructive force of the spoken word – something _he_ is a master of, he knows. 

 

Silence stretches between them, punctuated by the sound of falling rain and a faraway roll of thunder. 

 

“Malik,” Altaїr says, shoulders tensing as if he's steeling himself, “I saw you look. So if you're going to punch me: not in the stitches.”

 

“Why would I -”

 

He leans over, well into Malik's space, and brushes their lips together. 

 

\- - - 

 

They speak in whispered words, of doubts and fears and suspicion, save under the cloak of the night. This, too, is too raw, too vulnerable; _they_ are too raw, too vulnerable, and they seek shelter in a loose embrace, heads tucked together, feet entangled. 

 

This isn't the fulfillment of long-hidden desire, no vigorous clash of strengths, no pinnacle of lust. Altaїr is still injured, and moves with a hesitancy that speaks of inexperience. Malik, teetering between surprise and cautious joy, is content with what is offered: kisses as declarations of intent, nothing more. 

 

Nothing less, either. 

 

They speak until Altaїr falls asleep mid-sentence, a warm, heavy weight sprawled against Malik's side. Gently, Malik untangles himself. By feel alone, he navigates his way to the work room, comfortable in the dark, silent so as not to wake his sleeping charge. He cleans up the counter, slides his new map between other parchments to protect it from the moisture, and retrieves Al Mualim's note from between the pages of his ledger. 

 

He crumbles it in his fist and drops it into the small fireplace, to burn later. The old man will just have to wait a little longer. 

 

From there, Malik finds his way to the courtyard. 

 

It's still pouring, and the air smells of earth. Malik isn't prone to sentimentality, but he can appreciate that for what it is – the scent of growth, of newness – and stands there in the rain, grinning like a fool. 

 

\- - - 

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to turn into hot mansex, but my brain had other ideas. Note that I've in all likelihood completely mangled any medical facts concerning abdominal stab wounds: my apologies. I'm also reasonably certain that something like this, in theme at least, has been written before, but eh - the more, the merrier.


End file.
